


Of All That Is Mine

by entanglednow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Obedience, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-09
Updated: 2010-06-09
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:30:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there are lessons to be learned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of All That Is Mine

  
If there is one thing that Lucifer shares with War, loath as he is to admit it, it's the sin of pride. Though the Horseman doesn't simply take pride in his work. He revels in it, he _glorifies_ in it. In a way that some might find overly enthusiastic, indulgent even. He's a complex thing, made for a simple task. Destruction. Chaos. But he's also part of Lucifer's plan. He's a tool to be used. An imperfect one, but one fit for the purpose. One that, if wielded correctly, will leave the world burning.

Still, Lucifer can't help but think, at any moment, War might stray from the room; into the chaos of humanity outside, and stir them into ever greater madness.

His smile is wide, shameless.

"You're too attached to your flesh, you have no control," Lucifer says. Chastisement, or warning, or maybe both.

War laughs, soft in his throat, like he finds the idea amusing.

"Control doesn't have to be absolute. That's a sterile thing with no room for chaos." He smiles again, and nods slowly towards the window, as if the gesture is supposed to encompass the whole world. "You need a little chaos."

Lucifer drifts closer, finds the world outside as polluted by mankind as he expected. The ceaseless, selfish offensiveness of them, every voice loud enough to drown the others out in a din of rage and confusion. He sees nothing worth saving there and there's a satisfaction in being proved right, every time.

"You'd rather sink to their level - wade through the mess of their blood and the weaknesses of their flesh and enjoy it. That's why you're inferior."

War grunts.

"That doesn't make me inferior, that just makes me greedy." The expression on War's face suggests he finds nothing wrong with this. This tainted need for _sensation._

Lucifer captures War's throat in his hand. More flesh and blood than anything else at this instant in time. He tips it back, watches the stretch of his neck. He finds the curving, forced gesture of submission...appropriate.

"Greed makes you inferior too," he says.

"Like you're as cold and logical as an angel," War says carefully.

Lucifer knows when he's being mocked. His fingers tighten, one sharp reflex that leaves a dry gasp caught in War's throat, before he relaxes them.

"Your rage burns hotter than fire, I can feel it a world away," War says quietly. "Your desire for conquest is like a scream among the whispering of the world. That's hard to stay away from. Call me reckless. Call me stupidly fucking reckless."

Lucifer slides his hand away and War surprises him by leaving his head tilted back. Leaving the arch of his throat bare, like he expects more.

Like he expects to be abused.

Or wants to be.

Lucifer reaches a hand out, lays it on War's shoulder. It's a simple but perfect expression of force that takes him to his knees.

"Perhaps this is where you belong then?"

There's a tension, a second of resistance - like War can never go quietly, or gently. But eventually he settles on the dusty floor, in clothes ill-suited to him. Kneeling but not penitent, never penitent.

Something else, something expectant and bright red and _hungry._

It’s strange how a symbol of obeisance became something so brutally, impossibly sexual.

"You'd let me have you like this." Lucifer makes it sound like a quiet observation. "And I wouldn't have to force you, or command you. You'd let me do whatever I wished. Until I left you shaken and broken open and weak."

"Do you want to?" War asks, through a smile full of teeth. It's a mockery of temptation, like he believes Lucifer is a broken thing who would never understand.

Lucifer pushes a hand into War's hair, fingers closing tight. War reacts to the movement, to the suggestion of his position.

"You're as desperate as them," Lucifer says. There's something like disappointment in his voice. And something else, something unlike anything he has words for. Something tight and strange. He's torn between the decision to punish, to break, and the strange temptation to push. To slice pieces off until War sees how human he is under the skin.

Because some lessons can only be learned in blood.

"You're as willing as them to submit to whatever the body wants, whatever brief, meaningless sensations you can claw out of them in the name of pleasure." But Lucifer thinks there's something, perhaps, in the way War came to him. Submitted to him, which is as it should be. The power is satisfying.

His hand curves, pulls until War's head is tilted forward.

"Do it, then. Prove you're no better than them. That you can be tamed, that you can be obedient."

Lucifer's already fallen far enough that his flesh is hard beneath where War's fingers unbutton and unzip him, sliding material down and away in slow but competent movements.

Lucifer tips War's head back so he can see his face, so he can watch the shift of emotions. The tension under the skin.

"Open your mouth, if you find their sexual perversions so attractive, if you want it, then show me."

War makes a noise, a low steady growl. But he lets his mouth fall open, and Lucifer fills it.

He doesn't expect a reaction from himself, a push, an indrawn breath at the shift from cold to heat. Both are wholly and completely instinctive. Though they are instincts Lucifer has never had. They are the instincts of his skin.

The sensation is sudden and new and intense. A liquid, sliding catch and drag, that leaves him shifting forward, pressing in - and War's hands lift to hold his thighs, fingers digging in hard enough for Lucifer to feel it. It's different, but not _less_ when the Horsemen slides back, leaves him cold and damp, then engulfed again.

There is, it becomes apparent, a skill to this. Though Lucifer doesn't know if War possesses such a thing. All he knows is that the whole experience feels overwhelming, suffocating. He knows he should shove him down and away rather than submit to this. But knowing what he should do and forcing War to stop are very different things.

The idea of it - he refuses.

"Perhaps, this is what you're for," Lucifer says. Though he never intends to, never means to. War grunts something unintelligible and shudders and takes him deeper. He makes Lucifer take a breath, makes him _breathe_. "And I will have you like this, whenever I wish."

Lucifer is drunk on it, and he can't stop. There's a sparking snap of cold power that rolls and lashes and makes War groan into him. A long shudder of vibration. Lucifer gives a greedy, helpless shove that leaves no room to swallow or breathe. He understands, suddenly and completely, that War is his, completely and utterly his.

He catches the back of War's neck, drags him free - leaves his mouth red and wet, and Lucifer experiences a stab of brutal, inky-black desire that threatens to leave the room a charred wreck.

War shudders like he sees it, like he sees _him_. Lucifer drags him to his feet, boots knocking against War's dress shoes as he shoves him back, pulling at the unnecessary complication of his clothes. Rips with brute force what he can't remove by design, and presses him face-down over the table.

War is warm, warm in the way of all flesh, except Lucifer's own, which burns cold now. His fingers leave pale marks wherever they rest - grasp, dig in. War doesn't struggle, instead there's the low catch of laughter, of amusement.

War shifts his thighs apart, in a way that suggests he has been in this position before. He's so easily conquered, chaos and fire and destruction are not rigid by nature. War is a mess of angry, greedy acceptance and discord, and Lucifer slides inside before he's ready for what it will feel like. For what it does to his nerves, already bright and alive and desperate for more, whatever the cost. There are no words from the Horsemen, just a long, hissing breath that tastes like pain and anger and lust. It leaves Lucifer helpless to do anything but obey his body's demands for harder, deeper and rougher. He has no choice but to give in.

"You are broken," Lucifer tells him, while he leaves him raw and open in one angry slide after another.

War grunts in protest and wraps his hands round the edge of the table. But he moves wherever Lucifer presses him, accepts everything. He's strong enough to take what Lucifer's desperate to give. There's no need to slide a hand to the back of his neck and hold him there, but the possessive gesture winds everything tighter, makes it burn hotter.

"And you're mine," Lucifer says, with grim finality. War groans obedience and shoves back into him. It's a flickering, bright edge of something that feels too much like worship and it's such an unexpected blasphemy that Lucifer falls. Again.

The world is suddenly tight and sharp, focused down to a single impossible point. There's breath in his throat and sound, neither of which he can stop. The burning heat of War underneath him is, for a single second, the only thing he can process. It's an eternity of jagged sensations and details that leaves him pressed against him. Still inside him, warmer now, accusingly slick where he's pushed in deep.

There's silence in that pause, nothing but the slow rush of breath that War doesn't need and the careful shift that leaves them separate beings once again.

Lucifer feels unravelled, he feels loose and incoherent and strange, like he might fall free of the bonds of his vessel at any moment. He's no longer sure which of them this lesson was for.

He becomes aware of a soft, steady vibration, slow and hypnotic.

War is laughing.


End file.
